


Snippets

by TheMagicMeep



Series: Trust and a lack thereof [7]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Femdom, Historical, Scottish mythology and folklore, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 21:51:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMagicMeep/pseuds/TheMagicMeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are just little ficlets from my tumblr that are not big enough to be left on their own</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The price of progress

There is part of her that’s dying; Scotland can feel it. They say that it is _progress_ and that it is for the sake of _improvement_ but then why must it hurt so badly?  If this is what is best for her people why is she coughing up blood, just why is she so feverish and ill? Why are her loyal people, her own brave, resourceful people being pushed further and further away?

All she can see is their desperate, betrayed faces when they look to her, she is their own Nation after all. She is the land that they, their family and ancestors have fought, toiled and died for but even she can do nothing but stand powerlessly to one side and watch her people throw their own countrymen from the only life they have ever known.  

She screams all manner of foul abuse at her bosses until England pulls her away, whispering that she cannot live divided in such a way.

But Scotland merely laughs; high and brittle as she retorts that she has done it all her life and all she wants is them back. She wants her lost children, but they are gone scattered like leaves to all corners of the world and never to return to the motherland who despite everything still loves them.

She can’t push all the blame onto her brother for this; it is her own doing just as much as his. It is a rot she helped set in her own bones and it _hurts._ Scotland has always been a nation divided, but now she can feel a whole part of her dying and with it she sickens.

Scotland’s ancient heart aches for every Scot who sails away and never returns. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be based on the highland clearances. You hear a lot from exiled Scots who missed their homeland and I like to think she missed them too.
> 
> Here because I found this and it made me sad
> 
> "They bore within their breasts the grief  
> That fame can never heal  
> The deep, unutterable woe  
> Which none save exiles feel."  
> ‘The Island of the Scots’- William Edmondstoune Aytoun


	2. Hogmanay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

In the dark Edinburgh shines bright, not as bright as the blindingly, loud lights of London or Paris perhaps, but Edinburgh has a rough, rugged beauty all of her own as she lies stately and proud, unconcerned with London’s bustle or the drama of Paris.

But Hogmanay is Scotland’s time and tonight Edinburgh is _alive._ With her people’s excitement racing through her veins Scotland herself laughs and sings along happily with her children. Her brothers watch in amusement and even France smiles to himself, sticking his frozen hands in his pockets and looking around the crowded streets.

The air is electric, people are belting out songs and it’s all so _friendly_ despite the icy chill in the air. The Scots mix with people from all over the world; he even hears the musical lilt of his own tongue carried over the noise of the crowd. It truly feels as though the world is in Edinburgh tonight.    

They are all waiting for midnight, standing together in the cold, crowded street all eyes focused on the castle, Scotland bounces on her the balls of her feet, her green eyes shining bright and completely focused on the castle, she offers him a dazzling smile when he wraps an arm around her shoulders .   

When midnight finally hits, the cheer almost knocks him off his feet, fireworks paint the clear night sky with colour and high on the castle wall Mons Meg sees off the old year with a bang. It suddenly feels as though something has snapped, the city swims with elation and the entire country rings with the sound of glasses chinking.

France is so engrossed by the fireworks that he jumps when Scotland yanks him down for a kiss, she chuckles slightly against his mouth and despite being surrounded by her brothers and several thousand strangers it is still one of the most intimate moments of his long life.

She pulls away, eyes sparkling and a blush high on her cheeks just as drunken strains of Auld Lang Syne rip through the night. Scotland adds her voice to the crowds and before they know it her brothers and France join in. The moment is perfect, to Frances mind, for once he does not care about the cold or the people pressing in on him, they are all together welcoming in the New Year and looking hopefully towards the future.

It is _beautiful._  


	3. Dominance

It was getting hard to draw breath with her pressed up so close, her hands hard on his shoulders and green eyes wide and dark enough to swallow him whole. She is beautiful in the half light, her hair falling in a riotous mess down her back and over her chest and her warm curves inviting even as she shoves him down to his knees.

He tries to rise again but she only chuckles darkly and presses him more firmly into the floor with a low purr of “ _stay put_ ” that goes right to his cock. France can only look up, through pale lashes to see the smug grin crossing Scotland’s face and the way her eyes darken even further to have him at her mercy. He is most defiantly _not_ in control tonight, he hasn’t been since he came through the door and it sends a thrill through him.  

Scotland’s iron grip on his shoulders lessens slightly when she feels him relax and she backs away drawing him with her to settle herself down on a nearby chair, sprawling in it like a Queen on her throne and watching him with a distinctly predatory expression that sends any rational thought fleeing into a hazy corner of his lust addled mind.

She allows him to shuffle closer on his knees and rest his head against her thigh with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a smile.  He moans quietly when she moves her hand to rest on his head and runs her fingers gently through his hair. The other hand leaves his shoulder only to tug at the end of his tie, not hard but just enough to make it known that she is in charge.

“Look at you” she murmurs throatily as he looks up at her and leans into her touch like a pet dog wanting praise “if you had a tail it’d be wagging”. Her accent is thicker now and despite Frances English having vanished along with all those rational thoughts he still shivers at the sound of her voice.   

She plays with the soft strands of his hair and tugs the ribbon out to let it fall free across his shoulders. France shakes his head slightly to get his golden curls out of his eyes and Scotland laughs, low and distinctly _pleased_ sounding.

Then the gentle fingers in his hair turn violent, dragging him up for a kiss that is all teeth and tongues, she nips at his lip and brushes a thumb along the line of his jaw and when she pulls away France catches himself making a low whimpering and _needy_ noise in the back of his throat. Scotland merely hums in response, her green eyes glittering dangerously above her smirk and France thinks that those who believe that England is the only one to be feared among the siblings are all fools.   


	4. The Rhymer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short old and experimental ficlet which I took from my LJ/tumblr and fixed up a little. It's based on the legends surrounding Thomas the Ryhmer and I would suggest you have a read about him if you like this sort of stuff because he's really pretty interesting!

He is a man of two women and he always will remain torn between them.

His Queen is unearthly in her beauty and inhuman in her actions, but he expects nothing else from a ruler of Elfland. She is both wise and graceful without compare but she wraps her web unbreakably tight about his heart and his mind. So he foolishly follows her out of the world of mortals and obeys without question when she bids him to remain silent.

He simply watches and learns and in return she grants him a most precious and terrible “gift” before he returns to the lands of the mortals. Only to find a long seven years have passed in his absence and he is altogether _different_. But he regrets nothing and even when he returns to Elfland leaving his mortal life behind him forever he does not look back.

The other lady in his heart is altogether too earthly; she is ruggedly beautiful, viciously cruel and unlike the fae Queen she appears all too human. She is the very land that birthed him and like any child he cannot quite shake his love for her, even as he looks into wild green eyes that threaten to pull him down so deep that not even his fairy mistress will ever find him.

The Elf Queens gift lets him see into the mists of the future and when he speaks, he always speaks the truth. He has _seen_ the many trials that his dear country will endure in the course of her long, long life and it grieves him to see the suffering that she would face, suffering that he cannot protect her from. But she listens unflinchingly and takes careful note of each prophesy that falls from his lips.

When the Queen eventually calls to him again he is no longer a young man and his joy at seeing the elf horse is by no means false. His motherland does not speak as he says his farewell, but her eyes glitter knowingly and when he turns away towards the waiting white horse he can still feel the weight of her gaze on him.

But he cannot abandon her forever, so when he feels the need he rides out leaving Elfland far behind him and he rides for _home_. Sometimes he barters with the mortals for the horses he will need when the time finally comes and he is needed again. Occasionally he is sent on some errand for his Queen and he goes willingly.  But there are times when he merely wants to feel the cool air on his face while he rides across the lands he once walked, hoping for the barest glimpse of red hair and fierce green eyes.   

For Scotland is both the bitter highland winter and the warm hearth that he remembers from his childhood, she is the land that made him and when the hour comes when her need is gravest he will answer.


End file.
